The Inkwell presents: Parting Words

By The Inkwell

This month, we chose to take inspiration from those that started us down this path -- other writers. And though we could have gone with any element of another's work, we decided on that which hits us hardest, leaves us wanting more, or simply provides a satisfying conclusion. Yes, you guessed it, that final line, that closing sentence, the proverbial 'End'.

Ghosts at the Door - Some provide guidance for the most unusual of visitors
Maybe - Is the path less taken the path worth taking?
Melody to Obsession - Seeking the source of a song may be harder than one might think
A Mother - An ode to she who deserves more praise than we can ever give
Retrieval - For this hunter, the job might just be the death of him
Reconvergence - A simple act of sabotage and misdirection goes awry
Ferrying the Fey Cats - Do your research before entering any home
This is not an Exit - Time does not heal all wounds, and forgiveness is tough
Harmony - Every ending is a beginning, and stories come from somewhere
Arcadia Vias Peregrinentur - Pain does not need to be borne alone
Mischief Night - A prank goes downhill when the victim doesn't find it funny

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Inkwell
• Release date: Jun 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9780463497258

The Inkwell

We are a writing collective founded on Discord that currently includes 20+ writers all helping each other on the climb to completed works.

Book preview

Ghosts at the Door

Written by Anne Doebell

There was a hint of freshness on the wind this morning. The whispering touch of change and movement brushed past his bald head, drawing circular patterns in the smoke billowing off the smoldering white sage before him. Autumn mornings were always full of such change. Just like the trees below the cliff shed their leaves, humans shed their past to embark on a journey towards the future. How many similar days did he have left until his own journey began anew? 

Deep breaths spun the thought through his mind, turning it on its head and side, letting him ponder it from every angle, lungs filling with the crisp morning air. Dew drops accumulated on his robe, settling into the crooks of his arms, resting their little bodies until their paths brought them to their final destination. Orange bloomed beyond his eyelids, gently nudging him from his musings, and his old eyes opened to welcome the sun into his heart once more. Another day, another warm kiss.

The time to change would come, eventually, but until then there was no rush. He would sit at the edge of the cliffs and observe the world changing around him. He’d say farewell to the leaves that had been his companions for the last season, and sing gentle songs to the trees they’d left, consoling and reminding them of the hope arriving with spring. He would sing their lullabies until the valley beneath his gaze fell asleep, and winter’s soft touch enveloped them. 

It is time, my little darlings, he said to the dewdrops, gently shaking them from his robes to fall upon the ground, the day has begun, and so should I. Turning, he ignored the shadow hiding at the edge of his vision. It would reveal itself in time, once it felt ready. 

The sun at his back, he retrieved the clay teapot from inside his hut, and hung the heavy cloth of his door on a hook to one side, inviting in all the change-filled air. Age had made him slow and plump, his bones dry like tinder, ready to break at any moment. It took longer every day to move from shuffling to walking, to straighten his back and soothe his joints, but such was the course of time. The babbling brook behind his home, long ago just a dribble from the smooth mountain wall, filled his kettle as eagerly as the tea leaves filled his home with fragrant smells of summers. 

Would you enjoy a cup of tea? he asked the shadow on his doorstep. 

I – They were always hesitant at first, shuffling their feet just like the one behind him did. The soft scratch of shoes against soil the only indication of another soul on this lonely mountain. You can see me? 

Yes, and therefore I offer you a cup of tea. Jasmine, with cornflowers from the summer. Would you like some? 

I, uhm, yes? 

The plump man nodded, a soft smile spreading across his lips, as he filled the second cup, carefully straining the golden liquid through a sieve to catch the opened leaves. Once done, he set the sieve aside and turned. 

His guest had dark hair and eyes, and everything about him was somber, from the lines around his lips to the set of his shoulders. No spark or light sat in those eyes, and they spoke of wariness, surprise, and the bottomless despondency of repeated rejection. Like all ghosts visiting the plump man’s home, the edges of his guest’s form were fuzzy, a gradient transition between thin air and human body. 

I apologize for not formally inviting you in, but the day is so beautiful, I thought it best we take our tea outside. I have a pillow for your comfort, if you wish.

The host’s apologetic smile was met by a frown, the ghost’s gaze passing from the two clay cups to his host and back, as he slowly shifted his weight from one foot to the other, I think I’ll be fine? 

Good, good! Come then, before the tea gets cold. Pushing past the ghost, the plump man led them to where he’d meditated a little while ago. The sage still smoldered, its smoke shifting through air currents. Setting the clay pots beside it, he inhaled the cleansing scent with one deep breath. His guest followed slower, still eyeing his surroundings with wary glances. He settled down opposite his host but did not reach for his cup, staring at it instead, hands curling into fists, and lips pressed together. 

You can take it, the host encouraged, nodding, but the ghost shook his head, jaws clenching. 

I can’t. 

Trust me, just give it a try. 

The ghost watched the host for a while, before hesitantly sticking out a hand to poke the clay cup with his index finger. When it moved beneath the force, the liquid inside stirring, his eyes grew wide. His lips split into a smile as he gripped the cup tightly, drawing it toward him with almost childlike excitement, How is this possible? I’ve tried so often, but haven’t been able to hold anything since– his voice caught and lower lip quivered, since–

Since you died. 

The ghost nodded, tears welling up. 

It’s alright. Death is a part of life, nothing to be sad about. 

I—I always thought nothing existed after death. No afterlife, no reincarnation, no heaven or hell, and then suddenly I wake up like this, he gestured to his fuzzy form. My boyfriend sobbing over my body, and unable to do anything to console him. He didn’t see or hear me, and when I tried touching him, my hand passed right through. It’s easy to believe death isn’t scary when you live life thinking you’ll never have to experience its consequences. 

I’m sorry for what you’ve endured, the host said, voice taking on a soothing undertone. Would you like to talk about how you died? 

Every ghost differed in what they needed. Some arrived with clear-cut ideas of what they wanted, while others turned up confused and scared, and a few just wanted answers. But in the years the plump man worked his profession and lived in this hut, he’d learned well the importance of talking about what happened, of giving Death a name and a purpose, and not letting it